The thing lunges.
I jump sideways, sneakers skidding in ash as I swing the torch between us. Fire blooms bright and angry. Heat slams intothe pumpkin’s face and it recoils with a hiss, rind blistering and splitting.
Only for a second.
Vines whip out, slicing the air. One snaps around my wrist and twists my skin, wrenching a scream out of me. Pain flares white-hot. I slam the torch into the vine. It shrieks as it burns, skin bubbling and tearing open, sap and blood spraying my arm.
Another vine slams into my chest and I fly backward, the world tilting as I crash through a row of burning corn. Stalks snap and collapse under me. Fire kisses my braids. Smoke fills my mouth and nose. I hit the ground, knocking the air from my lungs and the pitchfork from my hands.
Great.
I roll and gasp, copper flooding my mouth. Blood. Definitely blood. The fire spreads fast now, flames chewing through the corn while smoke swallows the sky. My eyes burn. I can’t see it anymore, only shapes shifting in the haze and the sharp crack of stalks snapping apart.
It’s not charging.
It’s circling.
Hunting.
My pulse hammers in my ears as I push up on one elbow. My whole body shakes, but I bare my teeth anyway. “Come on,” I whisper, spitting red into the dirt. “It’s just us girls now.”
The smoke ripples to my left.
I swing the torch on instinct. Fire roars outward, but it’s already there. The thing bursts through the flames, pumpkin face blistered and blackened, vines snapping like whips. One coils around my ankle and throws me.
I slam into the ground and pain explodes up my spine. The torch skids from my grip, fire licking dangerously close.
“No, no, no?—”
The vine drags me closer. I claw at the dirt, nails tearing, but the soil gives way under my hands. Loose. Worthless.
A vine lashes out and cracks across my face.
My head snaps sideways. Searing pain detonates. Blood floods my mouth again, thick and salty, spraying onto the ground as I cough and gag.
That one’s going to bruise.
I’m still getting dragged, inch by inch, toward Sandie. The vines bite into my ankle and calf, hot and slick, tugging.
Think, Val.THINK.
My hands fumble at my pockets. Denim. Sweat. Blood. Then— I pull out a flare just as the monster reaches for me, vines stretching wide like arms ready for a hug from hell.
I strike it.
Red fire screams to life in my grip. I shove it straight into the writhing vines. They sizzle and split, sap and blood spraying hot against my skin. The thing jerks back, loosening its grip.
I wrench free and crawl, coughing, dragging myself through burning corn. Flames lick my sleeves. Heat chews at my lungs. My vision swims.
My fingers hit metal.
The pitchfork.
I grab it, spin on my knees, and swing with everything I have left. The tines punch through the side of the pumpkin’s head with a thick, hollow crack. Seeds and pulp explode across my arms, steaming in the heat. The body stumbles, flailing, clothes igniting as fire races up the vines wrapped around Sandie’s torso.
I plant my feet and keep hold of the handle. My hands shake, but I don’t let go.
“Sorry, Sandie,” I gasp.
